


Wild Lessons

by RaspberriesInCaramel



Category: Cultist Simulator (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Gender, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Consentacles, F/F, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Masochism, Other, Pain, Painplay, Supernatural Elements, Teeth, Violent Sex, ambiguous genital configurations, both ezeem and the priest are ambiguous in both of these ways, kind of, listen it's Grail what do you expect, not really with the tentacles but it's explicitly consensual monsterfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 05:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaspberriesInCaramel/pseuds/RaspberriesInCaramel
Summary: Ezeem is right; I don’t see the Fifth History. I feel it.





	Wild Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I chose not to use archive warnings because I wasn't sure whether "Graphic Depictions of Violence" applied or not. There is definitely a lot of blood and violence in this fic, but it's described in a soft-focus way that I didn't find disturbing to write as someone who doesn't like gore. Your mileage may vary.

“I knew her in the Wake. Her arms were fewer; her arms were warmer; but her mouth was always cold.”

I rise, my cheeks hot, a biting retort on my lips. I hate the thought of this Grail-creature knowing St Agnes in a way I never have--I who am scarred for her, who already bear the marks of her mortifications, who could not stop dreaming of her no matter how many times I performed the approved devotions--

“Call me a liar. I dare you.” If Ezeem had eyes, I am sure they would be glinting; the black lips already stretch across the entire blood-red face, but the terrible smile seems to widen. “Or come here, and I will kiss the Fifth History deep into you, where no one will see it, not even you--”

I rush forward and slap Ezeem across the face, a feat that is only possible because the thing has deigned to sit in order to fit inside my study. The red cheeks have been consumed by mouth in that hideous grin, and the slap is rather less satisfying than I would like; my palm connects with teeth, not skin, and then I am restrained by long limbs, strong hands, and claws that dig into me and draw blood.

Ezeem’s breath is hot against my face and smells of everything I have given up. It is thrill and power and hunger and change, and I feel my heart pound as I look at the long, sharp teeth. My blood is racing through my veins as if desperate to escape my body, and I think of the way I open to St Agnes in my dreams. I want this Grail-thing to kiss me as she did. My blood is already rushing from me to seek communion with something that once touched her. Perhaps, as my skin becomes the threshold for its journey, I will know her better.

“Yes,” I say, so quietly I can hardly hear myself. “I want to know.”

Ezeem is right; I don’t see the Fifth History. I feel it. I  _ know _ it. The great mouth opens and the sharp white teeth sink into me, as long as my hand, as deep as my yearning for St Agnes. My blood flows down my body in hot, painful, delicious rivulets, straddling the boundaries of my body as I straddle Ezeem. I am covered in it, enlivened by it. I sink my teeth into Ezeem’s red shoulder and shake like a dog with a bone. Ezeem roars with pleasure or pain or both, and tears my clothes from me along with bits of skin, which is good. My skin is the boundary between my body and the world; let it disappear as the boundary between the world and the Mansus does when I dream, when I summon Ezeem or other things, when my congregation take to me with knives and I know the path I must become for them.

I kiss the red-white-black mouth, lick up and down those great teeth, cut my tongue on them. I push my tongue behind them to tangle with Ezeem’s, and tangle it does. Ezeem’s tongue is much longer and stronger than mine, and tastes of blood spiced with cinnamon and lust. It wraps around mine, stroking, caressing, surprisingly gentle, and then it snakes into my mouth and down my throat faster than I can think.

So many things are happening faster than I can think, now. I swallow Ezeem’s tongue and there is only more of it; I swallow the memories being fed to me, and there is only more of them. My blood is the blood of the Seven-Coiled, and I am the Daughter of Venoms. I bathe in it until I drown, and then I rise from it to join with Ezeem, again and again, in and out and in and out keeping the doors open keeping my legs open keeping my mouth open to scream and to suck on the great wet tongue. There are so many holes in my body, and I am leaking from every one of them.

Ezeem strikes me and I shiver, strokes me and I cry out. I can’t cause damage in return, but with Ezeem inside and around me I am vicious and insatiable, and when I muster all my strength to slam the red body against the floor and drag my nails across the skin, the terrible voice hisses, “Yes!”

There is blood everywhere, and I am beginning to feel faint even as the sight and smell and taste of it drives me to ecstasy. But feeling faint has never been enough to stop me. I pin Ezeem’s bony hips to the ground and thrust, riding as if for my life. I forget that if I die, my congregation will have no Threshold; I forget everything but the Mother of Ants and the taste of blood, and Ezeem within and around me.

“You should have led a congregation to the Grail,” Ezeem growls, and the horrible, wonderful voice is thick with pleasure. The cinnamon tongue slithers out of my mouth, and there is a brief moment of respite as I catch my breath. I feel both more alive and closer to death than I have ever felt before.

Then the tongue is out again, licking at my wounds, my doors, first the doors all over my body and then the door between my legs. Its touch stings and tickles and thrums with power, and leaves me just as red as before but filled with new vigor. I writhe, rutting desperately, squirming and sobbing and begging, insensible with need.

Ezeem throws me to the ground and flips me over, onto my stomach. “I’m not done with you yet.” The tongue, slick with saliva, blood, and arousal, slides between my legs and caresses for a moment, and then it is hot and wet and ruthless inside me.

The terrible claws rake across my back, nearly reopening my wing-scars, and I keen with pleasure-pain. My eyes are open and unseeing as I come. Histories spin behind them, vying to be known, but I can neither see nor comprehend them. All I know is blood and the ecstasy of opening my body.

Eventually the tongue slides out of me again, but Ezeem still doesn’t stop. I am penetrated again and again, with warm tongue and clawed fingers and slick dripping appendages and things I don’t understand. I am hurt and healed and hurt again. I am pierced, caressed, slapped, licked, groped, pleasured, delighted in. I try to return the favor, but as the frenzy mounts every touch makes me come, and I can do nothing but scream.

 

I come to on the floor of the study, red and sore, my mind filled with new knowledge but still clouded by the memory of that Bacchan delirium. My body feels stronger but stiffer, more brittle, as if Ezeem had taken me apart and then put me back together--which I suppose is in a sense what happened, although the order is less clear than that. I sit up, rubbing my head.

“Thank you,” I say, and Ezeem, who is still seated on the floor before me, nods. Oh, that horrible, enticing grin. “Now, ah… about my health.” Ezeem must know, having seen--having opened--my naked body, the scars I collect for my congregation. “I fear death by illness. Could you…”

“Open your mouth,” says that terrifying, tempting voice, and I do, without thought or hesitation.

Ezeem grabs me by the hair. The touch, the pain, makes me gasp, and I feel heat in my crotch.

“Tilt back your head.” As if I have any other choice. “We shall let one drop fall.”

I watch as the tongue cuts itself on the sharp teeth, and black ichor seeps out. Ezeem holds me still and grabs my jaw to keep my mouth open--as if I had any intention of closing it. Slowly, the ichor drips down the pointed tip of the tongue, and I feel it land on mine, slick and slippery and even more delicious than my own blood.

“Swallow.” I do. “Yes.”

There is satisfaction in the voice.

“You’ll be better now.”


End file.
